"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 005 - Pirate of the Pacific" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

A "back number" telephone directory was produced. This listed the phone numbers, and the names to
which they belonged, rather than the name followed by a number, as in an ordinary directory.

Doc looked up the number Liang-Sun had called - Ocean 0117. It was listed as the:

DRAGON ORIENTAL GOODS CO.

The address was on Broadway, far south of the theatrical portion of the street known as the Great White
Way.

Doc took a cab downtown. The hack driver wondered all the way why his passenger rode the running
board of the taxi, rather than inside. The hackman had never before had a thing like that happen.

The building, housing the Dragon Oriental Goods Company, was a shabby, ten-story structure. It was
decorated in the ornate fashion popular thirty years ago. "The Far East Building," a sign said.

Chinatown lay only a few blocks away.

Directly across the street, a new forty-story skyscraper was going up. The steel framework of this was
nearing completion. A night force of men was pushing construction. Noise of riveting machines banged
hollowly against near-by structures and throbbed in the street.

A dusty directory told Doc the Dragon concern occupied a tenth-floor office.

An elevator, driven by a man in greasy tan coveralls, was in operation. The fellow's round moon of a face
and eyes sloping slightly upward at the outer ends advertised that some of his recent ancestors had come
from the Far East.

This man never saw Doc enter. The bronze giant walked up. He did not want to advertise his presence -
the elevator operator might get word to whoever was leading the Mongol horde.

The office of the Dragon Oriental Goods Company faced the front of the building. The door lock yielded
readily to a thin steel hook of an implement from Doc's pocket. He entered.

No one was there.

For furniture, the place had a couple of desks, worn chairs, filing cabinets. Desk drawers and filing
cabinets were empty. There was not a sheet of paper in the place. No finger prints were on the
telephone, desk; window shade, or doorknob.

The window was dirty. Across the street, the girders of the building under construction made a pile like
naked brush. The drum-drum of riveters was a somber song.

The elevator operator did not see Doc quit the building.

HALF an hour later, Doc entered his eighty-sixth-floor skyscraper office uptown.

He was surprised to find none of his five friends there. He consulted one of the elevator boys.